Judith found it hard to relax while the Vikings celebrated.
They filled every space of the Walled City that had not burned in the attack, swarming like maggots over the carcass of the once great fortress. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, frothing ale, pungent sweat and piss. It was as if the heathens were trying to defile whatever was left of the city that hadn't been destroyed during the siege, and Judith was simply standing aside to watch them do it.
There was a crash nearby as a new cask of ale was broken open, making her jump. There had been little cause for celebration among her own people in recent months. The entire raid seemed to go by in the blink of an eye before grinding to a halt at the closed doors of the vault. Leading up to her time with the heathens, her days had been occupied with the arduous task of holding together what was left of her legion to make their journey to Valkenheim, and before that...
She closed her eyes and remembered the heat of the flames when her stronghold had burned, just as the lands she had sworn to protect burned before that, and the first bodies of those deemed heretics burned upon the Pyre's stakes before that. Those fires had felt like the same ones that burned the Walled City in the Viking attack. All of it was the same fire. The same war. The same burning hate.
Judith felt old. She felt tired, worn out, and far from the optimistic youth she had been when she first took her oath as her legion commander. Everything had changed when the Divine Pyre stormed forth like an eruption from the volcano's peak, bringing fire and death with them, and now that they were gone, she was not sure if her life could handle any more change. Watching the Vikings as they cheered and boasted of slaughtering so many of her countrymen, she knew that there was no going back to her life as a proud Warden of Ashfeld. It ripped at her heart to accept it, but she knew that no matter what, she would never be welcomed back at court for her part in the raid and would now have to live in a world where everything and everyone she knew was gone.
Such bitter loss was a draught that she had tasted too many times before but had learned that complaining earned no favors in this cold world. God rewarded those who helped themselves, but this battle had been one too many to fight on her own.
"Commander?"
Marcelo stepped out onto the balcony where she stood looking over the barbaric revelry. Like her, he had shed his armor for the simple trousers and sweat-stained shirt he wore beneath, although they each wore their swords at their hips. Their flight from the Lion's Den, the affectionate name for their stronghold in Sow Mesa, had been so fast and disorganized that there had been little time to organize the kit and belongings usually taken on campaign. On her order, their squires and servants had been told to flee before the Divine Pyre closed in around them, while armor, weapons, and food had been made a priority for loading the ships for their mad dash northward. Everything else beyond that was a luxury, even now.
"Yes, Marcelo, what is it?" she asked with a kind smile, happy for a distraction.
The younger Knight stopped and put a fist to his chest in salute. "The men are bedded down for the night, my Lady. With your permission I'll be the first to keep watch."
Judith arched a brow and leaned back to look past Marcelo. She and her soldiers had taken residence in an inn called The Valiant Defender, hoping that they could make use of the rooms and kitchen without getting in the way of the other clans, and she could indeed see that a few figures were heading upstairs to the rooms above. One old soldier was still sitting in the common room, bandaged leg propped up on a chair and snoring away with an open bottle in their lap.
"I know our legion is a far cry from its usual strength after so many months of fighting," she said, "but I am sure there are more than three men under my command at the moment."
Marcelo blushed and rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head. "Apologies, Commander. I tried to maintain the curfew, but..."
"No apology needed. I can hardly begrudge any of them a chance to relax and celebrate after all we have been through. No doubt those who have forgone the chance at a good night's rest will be crawling back tomorrow full of regret and shame, and perhaps a lesson will be learned. We can forgo the watch for tonight, at least."
"By your leave, Commander," Marcelo said with another salute, then turned to head back inside the inn.
"Marcelo..." Judith said sternly, stopping him before he could get too far. He turned to look back at her, and she gestured at the dancing shadows of the celebration before them. "Go have fun."
"Commander?"
"You are far too young to be turning in at this hour like some wizened old man. Go enjoy the night. You should know as well as I that not many like this come around to experience."
Marcelo's face fell as he walked slowly back onto the balcony to stand beside her. "But what about the heathens? This is a far cry from a ball or a banquet."
"Did I throw many banquets at the Lion's Den? I only seem to remember you feasting on dust as I made you run drills."
"A few that I remember," he chuckled, but his worries quickly returned as he looked out over the rabble of Vikings. "I don't know if that is such a good idea, though. Surely we must keep some form of separation between us and them..."
"What is that on your head then?" she asked, nodding at the red mark drawn down his forehead and chin. Marcelo froze, then lifted a hand to feel the dried blood on his skin, touching it lightly as if he wished it had disappeared.
Judith had been there to watch the sacrifice from the sidelines. What had been done to those priests was nothing short of demonic, going beyond any scope of barbarity she could have imagined. The air had smelled of blood long after the screams had died away, but even as heathen offering had been shared among the Northmen in their backward ritual, she had done nothing to stop it. Throughout the cutting, the hacking, and the desecration of men's lives for gods she did not believe in, she had just stood there, silently watching.
Perhaps when she was dead and gone, that would be her legacy; standing by and doing nothing as the world fell apart around her.
Marcelo's voice shook as he began to speak. "I'm sorry, Commander... I... I don't know what I was thinking. I should never have... It was wrong... wrong of me to take part in such a-"
"No apology is needed, Marcelo," she said, gently taking his hand and lowering it from the blood on his head. "You owe me no explanation, not after everything we have been through." He nodded, but she could see from his stricken look that he was unconvinced. "We have all done things we once thought ourselves incapable of doing. The sun will still rise tomorrow whether we regret it or not. Sometimes, I think, if we can still live with ourselves come morning, perhaps that was enough of a reason to go through with it in the first place."
"But how can I justify myself to God knowing that I have sinned against him so freely?"
"Is it a sin to love another, even if they are a heathen?" she asked him, "You care for this girl, yes? This Shaman who marked you? Perhaps the Almighty has put her in your life so that you can help bring the sort of peace she can't find among her own people? God has a plan for all of us, even here when the path he has laid out is terribly unclear."
Marcelo blushed and cleared his throat, his eyes downcast as he picked at a few loose splinters of the balcony railing. "It's not just her. She has other lovers already. A woman... and a man. It seems that to care for one is to... to care for the others."
"Ah," said Judith with a grin, understanding a bit more of Marcelo's struggle, "Well, perhaps God has greater plans in store for you than you first hoped."
"Commander," Marcelo admonished sharply, "this is no joke to be laughed at. It... It is wrong to feel this way. To embrace any of them is to embrace their pagan ways."
Judith's smile slipped away as she looked at him, and any thought of rank and position left her mind as she reached over to take his hand. "Do not hate yourself for loving another, Marcelo. I have never known you to be a man who draws a line in the sand when caring for others. That is what makes you such an outstanding Warden. This is not a fight you need to wage against yourself. Do what you feel is right in your heart, and no one can ever fault you for that."
"But... what of our faith?" He looked at her with wide, wet eyes, and Judith could tell he was ready to break. It may have been too late for her to know such bliss as true love again, but she would not simply stand by and watch as he gave into despair right before her eyes. If she could leave behind a strong legacy for anyone, she could do it for him.
"God will still love us come morning," Judith said softly, squeezing his hand. He looked comforted by that, but still, he lingered, and she laughed despite his troubles. "Oh, my dear Marcelo... Must I order you to go? Do not think it is beneath me if it will help ease your mind."
That earned her a sorrowful laugh, which she was grateful to hear. He shrugged and wiped gently at the corner of his eye. "I must seem like quite the fool. To care for any other woman alone would make things far more simple."
"Foolishness is often the beginning of bravery in matters of love," she mused, "And I have never been one to care for the simple or easy path."
"I... I will be back in time for morning drills."
Her snort cut the tension between them like a newly sharpened blade. "You will not. I expect you to be gone well into mid-day tomorrow, that is an order."
Taking a moment to compose himself, Marcelo backed away from the balcony to give her one last salute and gave a weak smile. "By your leave, Commander."
She saluted him in return, and when her hand fell from her chest, he headed down the stairs from the balcony to the street.
Watching him go until he disappeared into the crowd, Judith felt a sense of relief in her chest that he had mustered the courage to follow his heart, but with it, a bitter longing that such things only existed for her in dreams and memory. It all seemed so terribly unfair, not because Marcelo's future still seemed so bright and hers did not, but because she had been powerless to alter God's plan when it changed her life for the worse. That did not seem like divine love to her.
Suddenly, she had no wish to watch others celebrate and give thanks to heathen gods for a life worth living. Turning her back on the city, she stepped into the inn and passed the sleeping soldier to the kitchen. The wine cellar had a decent stock, and she took her time searching over the dates and vineyards listed on the tags. This was not a night for finding joy in the company of others. Let happiness and prosperity be gifts to the young whose many days still stretched out before them. Wherever life took her now, whether to the north or some other distant shore, she would make her own way and perhaps finally find her solitude.
She chose two jugs that suited her taste, holding them under her arm as she picked out a fancy goblet reserved for the most noble of guests. With that, she left the inn and put the celebration behind her, heading toward the city walls in search of a quiet and peaceful spot to sit and watch the morning come, with no intention of being sober come dawn.
Ragnar clapped along to the music and dancing around the blazing fire as his clan rejoiced in their victory, but his eyes kept glancing over toward the inn, hoping to catch a glimpse of a single face out of the crowd.
"He's not coming," Ragna growled through a mouth full of red meat as she gnawed on a haunch of roasted beef, sensing his anxious excitement without looking. Ragnar glared down at his sister where she sat back against a table, beef bone in one hand and a cup of ale in the other, and with Helge draped lazily against her side.
"You don't know that," he snapped, the illusion of his good mood swept away by his sister's indifference.
Helge lifted her head from Ragna's shoulder and grabbed her wrist to bring the beef bone closer for a bite. "He will come," she said as she chewed.
Ragna gave a snort of laughter and stole back the bone to continue tearing off strips as grease dripped down her chin. "You scared him off with your blood and kisses," she said with a grin, "These tin-men don't know how to have a good time like me and Ragnar."
"You're just saying that because he doesn't have anything you're interested in," Ragnar argued.
Ragna shrugged. "So I like a warm sheath over a sharp sword. What does it matter to you?"
"Because," Helge interjected, catching her lover by her greasy chin, "your stubbornness means that we have to miss out on more fun."
Ragna retaliated by dropping both food and cup to grasp Helge around the middle and tickle her sides, making the young Shaman squeak in surprise. "I'm all the fun you'll ever need, my wild dream," she grinned, then crushed her lips to Helge's as the two fell to furious kisses and eager groping on the bench.
Ragnar sighed and rolled his eyes, debating whether or not staying nearby was worth the chance of meeting with Marcelo. He did not know why he was so drawn to the Knight, but seeing Ragna and Helge embrace so enthusiastically only made him wish all the more that the handsome Warden was there to keep him company.
It seemed a cruel Loki's trick that he should desire someone who would have been his enemy in different circumstances, but then his interest in men was troublesome enough when so many of his people would put him down and wish him harm simply for his preferences. He enjoyed women when they would have him, and Helge owned a piece of his heart more so than any other woman he knew, but he had never shied away from such partnerships that would see him called ergi or argr by other men who thought that honor was somehow tied to where they stuck their sword. He had fought duels against such weak-minded scum and taken the heads of more than a few men who dared to tell him who he was and was not allowed to sleep with.
So it had been for both him and Ragna as they grew into adulthood, but luckily, Herleif and the people of Bilrost had always accepted them for who they were, even if they were somewhat exhausted by the constant brawling that often followed any man trying to coax their way into his sister's bed. Now, he simply wished to find someone to have him the way Ragna and Helge had each other, and maybe the world would be a bit less broken for their special kind of love.
The thought of remaining among so many people celebrating around him was no longer appealing as he stood alone. He was just about to take his leave when Marcelo stepped out of the crowd and into the firelight. Upon seeing him, Ragnar's heart leaped into his throat, appearing like a southern dream out of the night, blonde hair loose about his face, and the top of his shirt left open to reveal the smoothness of his chest beneath.
Finally remembering himself, Ragnar started forward and slapped his hand against Ragna's shoulder before grabbing a cup off the table to fill with ale. "He's here!"
"So?" Ragna growled, glaring up at him as Helge continued to kiss her neck.
"So quit your face-sucking and be polite," Ragnar warned, "And by Freyr, don't scare him off!" Ragna just sneered and turned her attention back to Helge's lips, but Ragnar gave her a hard kick to show he was serious. She hissed and kicked him back, nearly making him spill the cup of ale, but he got his revenge, knocking Ragna's boot away, though he almost kicked Helge in the shin as he did. When he looked up again, Marcelo was there standing before him. "Hail, good Marcelo! You came!"
Marcelo stared back with wide, unsure eyes as if he had surprised himself by being there. "Yes..." he said meekly, then cleared his voice and spoke again with feeling. "Yes, I thought I would be welcome." He gestured at the mark of blood upon his brow, the one that they all shared, and glanced over at Helge, who had stopped her affections with Ragna to stare back at him.
"You are welcome, my friend... You are most welcome," Ragnar said with a bright smile and offered the cup. "I am glad you're here. Please, drink, relax, enjoy the fire. I was beginning to worry you had forgotten us." A few warriors gave Marcelo dark looks as he moved closer to the fire and drank his ale, but Ragnar stared them down until he was sure they would be left in peace.
"You can thank my Commander for me being here," Marcelo said as he wiped foam from his lips, "I almost didn't come, but she nearly ordered me to do so. I think she was getting a little annoyed and wanted me gone, to be honest." He chuckled at that but then stopped when he saw how Ragnar's face fell at the news. "But I am happy to be here, I assure you..."
"If you say so," Ragna grumbled from her seat. Marcelo looked worriedly over at her and Helge, but Ragnar wasn't about to let a few sour words stand between them and a night worth remembering.
"If he says he's happy to be here, then he is," Ragnar assured, giving Marcelo a friendly pat on the arm. "We are all here for each other, and that's what matters. So, what shall we get up to? There is plenty left to feast and eat. We have games, dancing, and music! Or we could have Helge tell us a tale of mighty gods and heroic deeds! Old sagas that will warm the heart of any man, Knight or Viking, and may even bring a tear to your eye. How does that sound, huh? How about it, Helge? Will you give us a skald worthy tale?"
Marcelo smiled at his enthusiasm, but his gaze quickly faltered, and he tapped his fingers anxiously against his cup. "Actually, I don't think I'm in the mood for stories or games," he said quietly. He looked up between the three of them, but his gaze rested on Ragnar in the end. "I appreciate the offer, but... that isn't why I am here. I almost didn't come, truthfully. I think it's only fair that you know that, whatever might happen here tonight."
Ragnar felt his heart pounding within his chest, a pulse like the beginning of Berserkergang but somehow more frightening. He felt scared, which was something he was not accustomed to, but it would not throw him off the chase. For now, he waited and did not feel as if he would lose his calm while doing so. His voice was just a whisper when he spoke, eager and desperate for Marcelo's answer. "Then why did you?"
"Because, I think now, no matter what I do, my life will never be as it was before I met you all. That is why I couldn't stay away."
That made Ragnar smile, but still, he was too afraid to approach, even as he and Marcelo stared deeply into each other's shimmering eyes. He could not understand why he was so scared. He, chosen of the Allfather and blessed with frenzy, scared of one little blonde Knight. It froze him to the ground where he stood as much as it excited him. Then Helge spoke, filling the silence that hung between them with her brave declaration.
"There is no me without him." Helge cut in, stealing their attention and nodding at Ragnar from where she still sat on Ragna's lap.
Ragna slipped an arm around Helge's waist and held her close. "And there is no her without me."
"I understand," Marcelo said, looking between them.
"Do you?" Ragnar whispered again.
Marcelo's face grew stern as he took a breath to steady himself. "I am not here to be made a fool of. Whatever strange fates crossed to bring us together, we are here now, and I do not wish to be the subject of your teasing, and jests, or kept apart because I am a-"
He was cut short as Ragnar closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together at last. Marcelo stiffened against him, but he did not back away, and Ragnar reached up to cup his face in his rough hands. He gently moved his lips, coaxing Marcelo for more as they kissed before the glowing flames that danced into the night sky. When he felt Marcelo's hands come to rest on his hips, Ragnar finally pulled away.
"Yes... Yes to all of it," he smiled, and when they came together again, Marcelo did not shrink away or relent for how much he seemed to like feeling Ragnar's beard brush against his face.
All fears and reservations fell away as they gave themselves up, knowing only each other at that moment so that it went almost unnoticed as Helge and Ragna rose from their bench to stand beside them. Marcelo's breath caught in his throat to find the bright-eyed Shaman staring up at him, and just as Ragnar had done, she cupped her hands about the Warden's handsome face and brought him low to receive her own tender kiss. Ragnar smiled to see them embrace and felt no jealousy in his heart, knowing they would enjoy each other's company long into the night.
Marcelo stroked his fingers against Helge's painted cheek as they kissed, and when they finally broke apart, Ragna stepped up to gently grasp Helge by her hair and tug her head back to draw forth a soft moan from the Shaman. With a grin, Ragna nodded toward her brother, then leaned down to recapture Helge's lips for herself. Marcelo blushed deeply as he watched them, perhaps bewildered to find himself among such amorous company, but soon turned back to Ragnar with a smile.
They came together again, and Ragnar didn't hesitate to wrap a strong arm around Marcelo's waist and hold him close. He would have been content to stay locked in such an embrace by the fire for the entirety of the night but stopped when there was a tugging at his belt and felt Marcelo jump in his arms as he experienced the same. Looking down, they found Helge tugging them both along as she took a step after Ragna away from the fire.
"Come," Helge said, biting at her lip as she smiled, "The night is young, and I would have a taste of this one's pure heart before the morning comes..."
They needed no more encouragement than that to follow after the women. Marcelo could hardly keep his smile from his face, but as they went together, he leaned close to Ragnar and quietly asked, "She only speaks figuratively, yes?"
"Of course," Ragnar assured, but couldn't resist putting a protective arm around Marcelo's shoulders as they walked together, "But, uh... maybe just say something if she starts using her teeth too much. She most certainly likes to bite." He gave a playful wink and then laughed out loud to learn that Marcelo could blush even deeper.
Old Wolf grumbled to himself as he watched the three Vikings and the Knight leave the fire for another part of the city. Seeing them didn't spark his anger because of their strange union or even what had happened in the market earlier that day. Erik had blamed him for letting the rabid Shaman slaughter half his stock of slaves like sheep. No, it was because after all they had done to damage his reputation in the eyes of the King, they had the audacity to pass right by where he sat without saying a word or even acknowledging his presence.
"Oi... You feral lil..." He belched loudly and fell back into the chair he had been trying to rise from as the group walked on without looking back, laughing together and pawing at each other like wild nymphs. The world swam around him as he slumped back in his seat, his mind racing with all the jeers and curses he wanted to shout after them, but all that came out was a depressed groan and another deep burp. Luckily, the bottle he had been drinking from hadn't fallen to the ground. Pleased to find it firmly grasped in his hand, he raised it to his lips and took another long, desperate drink.
"Aah... Fooking lil'gobshites," he gasped, red rivulets of wine dribbling down his white beard. Laughter from nearby caught the attention of his foggy mind, and he looked to see a group of warriors nearby glancing at him as they talked over their drinks. "An what the fook are yous fools look'n at, eh?" The warriors ignored him, laughing even louder as they joked among themselves. "Oi! I'm talk'n to yous, fookers! I'm the King's champion, y'know! Me! Champion to th'fooking King!"
"I think I hear a dog barking somewhere," said one of the men, causing the rest to break into more laughter.
"Hear a-!? Oh, ya gone an done it now, laddie! Ya gone an done it! I'm gonnae run my sword so far up your fook'n hole you'll be..." Old Wolf began, but this time, when he actually did manage to get himself up from his seat, the street rocked more violently than ever like a ship tossed about on a stormy sea. "Oooo... worlds roll'n someth'n fierce..."
The city swam around him, only to be replaced by the shining stars in the sky as he tumbled backward to the ground. The chair he had been sitting in broke to pieces as he crashed on top of it, and the men taunting him roared with more laughter while more all along the street joined in. Old Wolf groaned in pain; the pounding in his head added to the stinging behind his eyes. It was about as low as he had been in a long time. Laid out drunk in a city he had done little to help conquer, taken for granted by a man who thought himself greater than the gods and whose idiot son had been given more authority all because a brain-scattered witch had gone on a murderous rampage out of nowhere on his watch.
In his drunken stupor, he wondered what his ancestors might say if they could see him now and then silently cursed himself for thinking of such things. He knew better than to start dwelling in the past while staring down the bottom of a bottle.
He hoped he hadn't broken the bottle in his fall. There was still some wine left inside.
Once he had finally gotten himself up and found the group of warriors gone and the bottle still on the table, he did his best to brush off the mud and filth of the street off his kilt and snatched up the bottle and his claymore before wandering off. No one paid him any mind as he stumbled his way down the road, seeing him as nothing but a foreigner with no homeland to call his own, lost among their ranks. He glared back at anyone who met his eye, daring them to say something, anything at all, that would be worthy of a fight. No words were needed, though, and he knew their thoughts just from the disgusted look in their eyes.
To them, he was nothing but the King's old dog—a mutt without any name.
Somehow, at some point, he had made his way off the main street and into a series of narrow alleyways. Nothing made sense to him in the gloom. Each new stone wall looked much the same as the last, with shadows playing tricks on him while squealing rats and skulking vermin skittered about his stumbling feet. He had no idea where in the city he had ended up or what direction he was facing. What was worse, he tipped the bottle up to find he had drunk the last of the wine far too many wrong turns ago.
"Fooking... shite..."
Slumping against one wall, he had nearly resigned himself to nameless obscurity in the darkness of that dank alley, but then the sound of stone gently scraping upon metal filled the air and rang in his ears.
Schkt-schkt-schkt-schkt
The noise echoed like nails dragging against his skull, shattering his woeful solitude and allowing him no rest. Letting the empty bottle slip from his fingers to clatter on the ground, he pressed onward, drawn by the agonizing sound in the dark. He did not know how long he walked carrying his great sword over his shoulder like a burden or how many times he turned blindly around corner after corner as the noise led him on. It was unceasing, growing louder, driving him mad with its haunting refrain.
Schkt-schkt-schkt-schkt
Finally, turning beneath an archway that stretched above him across the alley, he found the source of the torment. She sat alone behind a small fire at the end of the alleyway, with nothing but brick rising behind her. A dead end, the path he walked led only to her, who sat calmly running a whetstone along the edge of her silver spear.
Schkt-schkt-schkt
The Valkyrie.
Beads of sweat trickled from beneath his battle crown as he glowered from beyond the fire. From how her head was lowered, it did not seem that she had noticed his arrival just yet. He could turn back if he wanted to, but it had seemed like such a long way just to get here. It felt as if hardly any fight was left in him, all his strength sapped from his body by the cursed bottle, but turning back somehow felt like admitting defeat.
Gritting his teeth, Old Wolf forced himself out of the shadows and into the light, coming to stand before the Valkyrie at her fire. She didn't raise her head to him, her eyes fixed on honing her weapon to a deadly point.
"Ya keep whittling at that shiny stick, an you'll soon have noth'n left t'fight with," he said to her.
The stone did not quit its task.
Old Wolf growled in annoyance, but he was far too tired and drunk to think about lifting his heavy sword, let alone put the wyrd-woman in her place. He relented to drunkenness and exhaustion with a heavy sigh, lowering himself to the ground opposite her as best he could without falling.
Everything was quiet then, except for the crackling of the fire and the sound of her sharpening. Not even the noise of the clan revelry could be heard over the walls that rose up around them. Even his labored breathing sounded too loud for his own good, but he was too weary to care. Slumped over before the fire, cradling his gold-hilted sword in his arms, he licked his lips and let his misery give way to the only way he knew how to fight it.
"Got you anything to drink? Be it wine, or mead?"
Together, the dancing flames and shining stars above them glittered off Skuld's helmet. As always, she remained silent, but after giving her spear one more pass, she set down the stone and finally looked up at him. Even in the warm glow of the fire, her blue eyes looked no less cold-hearted as they stared at each other in the strange quiet of the night. Then, without a word, she got to her feet.
She stepped over to a pack and a bedroll nearby, half hidden by the flickering shadows on the walls, and picked up a jug from among her things. Old Wolf could not help but wonder if this was the place she had been staying since the city had fallen. It was a strange thought, but then, he would never claim to know the mind of a woman who chose to keep her mouth shut without needing to be told. Among her belongings were two other ornate spears and matching shields, but whether or not they had once belonged to other Valkyries who had fallen in the siege, he did not know. He only had eyes for the jug she brought over to offer him.
"Ah, there's a good lass," he grinned, making sure to lightly touch her hand as he took the jug. If she thought her strange ways could unsettle him, then he could certainly do the same in return, letting his eyes linger on her alluring figure and tattooed thighs beneath her skirt. If she was at all bothered by this, though, she didn't show it, returning to her side of the fire to sit and cradle her shining spear without making a sound.
Old Wolf watched her in growing suspicion, but his need for a drink was greater. Lifting the jug to his lips, he took loud, greedy gulps, letting the wine within warm his palate and run like red rivers from the corners of his lips. He finished with a satisfied sigh, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. Skuld stared at him from across the fire and smoke, neither judging nor indulging in his growing unease. If there was anything in the world to be said between them at that moment, he did not know the words and was not even sure saying them would do anything to solve the unseen tether that seemed to keep them together.
So, he held up the jug, offering it back to her as they sat like old friends around the fire.
At first she didn't move, but then simply lifted her spear and held it out between them. Old Wolf chuckled softly but slipped the jug's handle around the spear point, careful of its newly sharpened blade. Skuld easily managed the added weight, swinging the spear around effortlessly to take the wine. As far as he knew, the woman had never been seen without her golden hawk-like helmet, but she silently slid it up atop her head without hesitation for his company, hiding her storm-filled eyes from him beneath plated gold.
Now, as she revealed her soft pale lips to him in the dancing light to take her own drink that they shared, he truly couldn't look away. With that one glimpse at what soft beauty or scarred flesh might lay behind her mask, the mystery and enchantment she wielded over him and the world of men increased ten-fold to his wine-hazed mind.
Then, with a lick of her lips, she set down the wine and reset her helmet, appearing as if there had been no disturbance to her person at all.
"A weapon with reach has its advantages. You an I have that in common," he chuckled, patting his claymore.
Silence was his reward for trying to start a conversation, and the longer she stared at him without speaking, the more it felt as if she was inside his head, reading his thoughts, knowing his mind. He could hardly sit still under her icy gaze, which only stoked his anger to greater heights.
"Too damn hot n'this city. Not like home. Now there is some harsh country for ya. Storm forged, an frigid as a witch's teat. Ah, but the highlands... they are more beautiful than all the women of your cold homeland, I always say. Where the sound of crisp pipes echoes through green valleys deep with the foggy dew. That is what I remember from when I was a wee lad. Been a long time now. A very, very long time..."
He might as well have been talking to a stone carving. Those blue eyes stared at him unblinking, revealing nothing but knowing everything. His beard bristled as he ground his teeth until, at last, the silence began too much to endure.
"Speak, woman!" he snapped, unable to keep his rising anger to himself any longer, "It was you who brought me here with your infernal craft! Why do you torment me so?"
Firelight shimmered and embers sparked between them. Skuld said nothing.
Leaning forward, Old Wolf grasped the handle of his claymore and squeezed. "Let free your cursed tongue an speak... Tell me what it is you seek!"
"A warrior in need of a greater purpose."
Old Wolf blinked in surprise. He wasn't sure if she had actually spoken or if it was the wine playing tricks on him. Settling back again, he leaned against his sword for support and pondered her cryptic words.
"A warrior need'n purpose?" he muttered, "I have a purpose... I have a damn purpose, do ya hear? I am champion to the King! That is my purpose!" He thumped his fist against his chest as he frowned, determined not to let this woman get inside his head. "What greater purpose is there than that, eh? It is I who's served him for so many long years! No one else, only me! What more purpose d'ya fooking need?"
Skuld stared back from across the fire; looking through him, he could feel. Again, she said nothing.
Jumping to his feet, Old Wolf was determined to raise his claymore to her over the flames, even if the heavy sword brought him toppling down over them.
"I am a proud warrior from a long line of proud highland sons! I have a purpose!" he roared, his cracking voice echoing off the shadowed walls around them, "Ya hear me, corpse-maiden? I have a purpose!"
"A warrior's purpose is his pride. A warrior's pride is his name."
Her words landed upon him like a hammer blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He grimaced as his great sword began to shake in his outstretched hand, his strength failing, unable to keep up the charade any longer. The heat of the fire rose up to assail him, making his head swim and eyes water. The world began to spin again, rushing about him as he fell, just narrowly missing the rising flames and burning embers as his head smacked against the hard ground, drawing forth a pained and pitiful groan.
Stars danced behind his eyes. He did not know how long he lay there before he finally managed to push himself again. Drool and wine sticky with dirt clung to his bead as he got to his knees, and when he looked over, Skuld had not moved from where she sat.
"Curse you, wench..." he mumbled, rubbing at his sore jaw. He fumbled for his claymore nearby, its weight somehow greater than usual as he dragged it close and slowly got to his feet. "I seek noth'n from you... I have a purpose... I know what my fooking purpose is. I need noth'n from you..."
"The High One has a purpose for you, MacAlasdair," Skuld said calmly, picking up the whetstone once again to hold against her spear blade, "As do I."
Old Wolf looked upon her in stunned horror, not knowing when it was he had last heard that name spoken or how she had learned it. He stumbled backward as quickly as he could, falling back against the alley wall beneath the archway. Skuld remained where she was, filling the space with the echo of stone on metal.
"You... you stay away from me! D'ya hear?" Old Wolf yelled slumped against the wall, but he could only wheeze his threats now as his breath escaped him. "Ya hear me!? Valkyrie!? Wicked devil! I want no part o'your wyrd weaving! You stay away!"
Schkt-schkt-schkt
He threw himself into the alleyway in all fright, panting like a dog and dragging his claymore behind him. His feet stumbled as he went, falling into walls and knocking himself against corners, but he would not stop. The echo of her sharp blade followed after him wherever he went, perusing him like a ruthless hunter, calling him back to the end of the alley where the woman who delights in death waited for him.
Old Wolf fled like a scared pup, not knowing where he was going, just that he had to get away, running headlong into the dark before morning.